Jeeves and the Double Whammy
by Pjazz
Summary: Thanks to Aunt Agatha's meddling Bertie Wooster is hit by a double whammy engaged to Madelaine Bassett and forced to stand as a Conservative M.P. Can even Jeeves save him this time?


**Jeeves and the Double Whammy**

A contemporary Jeeves & Wooster story

by Pjazz

2007

It's oft stated that two things in life are inevitable - death and taxes. But there's a third - a rollicking from my Aunt Agatha. Especially if your name's Bertie Wooster, as mine happens to be.

I had more cause than usual to fear an r. from the aged relative. I'd recently attended a fancy-dress bash at Bobbie Wickham's place, going as Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle. Emboldened by several strong cocktails I'd rashly agreed a bet with Oofy Prosser that I could swing across the dining-room by means of the chandeliers . But the chandeliers were not designed to bear the weight of a swinging Bertram and came crashing to the ground, taking a fairish portion of the ceiling with it. Dashed embarrassing. Not least because Oofy dined out on the story for weeks. I had a feeling word of this debacle had now reached Aunt Agatha's bat-like ears.

Thus it was a trepidatious Bertram who entered the lair of the beast - or the drawing room of her Mayfair townhouse, as it is more formally known.

"Ah, there you are, Bertie. Good. Come in. Sit down. Is that a cigarette you're smoking? Put it out at once. Filthy, disgusting habit."

I stubbed the offending gasper out in an ashtray and sat facing the aged r. feeling like a mongoose attending a hungry cobra.

"Now then, Bertie, what is it you're doing with your life?"

"Oh, this and that, " I replied airily. "That and this, as it were."

"Are there any wedding plans on the horizon?"

"It depends what you mean exactly by 'horizon'. Also, 'plans'. And, not to put too fine a point on it, 'wedding'."

Aunt Agatha sighed. "I thought as much, you feckless young wastrel. Just frittering your life away."

Harsh, but then I hadn't come expecting the milk of human kindness.

"Is there anything you have succeeded in doing lately? Some minor achievement worthy of merit?"

I pondered. "Well, at the Drones I managed to stuff 8 hard-boiled eggs into my mouth at the same time. Tuppy Glossop wagered I couldn't, so I certainly showed him. Mind you, I was sick as a dog, but that's neither here nor there."

Aunt Agatha sighed deeply again, obviously not impressed by my feat of endurance.

"Bertie, you are a bitter, bitter disappointment to me. Why, at your age Alexander the Great had conquered the known world. And you speak of hard-boiled eggs!"

"Alexander the Great? Was he the one with the fiddle? Or the one with the elephant fetish?"

"That was Emperor Nero and Hannibal respectively, you ignoramous. Now sit up straight and listen carefully. An opportunity has arisen of which I expect you to take full advantage."

I was, as they say, agog. And not a little apprehensive.

"The Right Honourable Sir Joshua Plunkett, MP, has died unexpectedly. A combination of heart trouble and a nocturnal visit to club of ill-repute. I won't weary you with the sordid details, suffice it to say a man of Sir Joshua's age, health and marital status should have known better. The point is, there will now be a by-election at the now vacant seat of Chalfont St Regis. By pulling some strings I have secured for you the position of prospective Conservative candidate. You, Bertie, will become an MP."

"An empty what?"

"Not empty! An MP. A Member of Parliament."

"What? Me, a bally politician?"

"Correct."

"But I know nothing about politics!"

"I am gravely aware of your intellectual limitations. To these ends, I have arranged for you to be aided in this endeavour. Sir Watkyn Bassett's daughter Madelaine has just come down from Oxford, with a rather disappointing second despite the the best tutors money can buy. She is a highly-strung girl with a somewhat, ah, delicate disposition. Sir Watkyn believes - and I concur - that a spell in the political arena will toughen her up. Madelaine Bassett will be your election campaign manager."

"No, I say, dash it all!"

"You will become an MP, Bertie."

"But I don't want to become an MP!"

"You will become an MP because I wish it. Do you understand?"

"Oh all right," I agreed.

But not with any great gusto. No, without any g. g. whatsoever.

------

I spent the next few days in the Metropolis putting my affairs in order, then Jeeves and I motored south to Chalfont St Regis - or purdah, as I had taken to calling it. It was a double whammy. Bad enough that I faced a future as a politician, I would also be spending the next few weeks in the company of Madelaine Bassett, as wet a fish as ever flopped on a fishmonger's slab.

She and I had previous. We had run into each other at various times amd places - Cannes, Cap Ferrat, her home at Totleigh Towers - and for some extraordinary reason she had got it into her head that I was madly in love with her. Nothing could be further from the truth of course, but getting it to sink into her thick skull was another matter entirely. Now whenever I came across_ la _Bassett I turned around and high-tailed it in the opposite direction as fast as the Wooster legs could carry me

This constituency of Chalfont St Regis turned out to be a sizable chunk of the Hampshire countryside - all rolling hills and picturesque forests and villages. There was only one conurbation of note - the town of Chalfont itself.

Wooster HQ was a large brick edifice in the High street. I parked the Bentley outside and ventured up the front steps. And took an immediate leap back out sheer unadulterated horror. For there in the window was a huge poster featuring yours truly, larger than life and twice as ugly. Above my face was the imprecation - VOTE WOOSTER.

"Bit of a heart-stopper, eh, Jeeves?"

"It is somewhat eyecatching, sir."

"Eyecatching? My beak looks about a foot long, my teeth like giant tombstones. It'll frighten small children and the elderly."

Inside, the house was spartan but pleasant enough. There were vases of flowers dotted around and bowls of potpouri, making the place whiff a bit. I sensed the presence of Madelaine Bassett, and sure enough there was a note pinned to a door. It read:

Dearest Bertie

Popped out to the printers to get some more posters made up.

Be back soon.

Make yourself comfy.

Be sure to gen. up on rival cans.

yours sweetly

Madelaine

xxx

PS

Please feed Rufus, the cat. He is the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte.

"Jeeves, the madness has began already."

"Sir?"

I showed him the note.

"Miss Bassett is under the illusion the local moggie is the reincarnation of Emperor Napoleon, of Battle of Waterloo fame."

"Indeed, sir? A most whimsical notion."

"Whimsical? It's stark staring bonkers, is what it is. It's a wonder the men in white coats don't just scoop her up off the street. And what's this nonsense - gen. up on rival cans?"

"Ah, I think Miss Bassett aludes to your rival candidates in the election. If you wish, sir, I could brief you on their_ bona fides_."

"Brief away, Jeeves."

"Very well, sir. There are six candidates, including yourself. The Labour candidate is RJ Blenkinsop. A former miner, he will be campaigning for a higher minimum wage and better working conditions for miners."

"Seems fair enough. why can't he win?"

"Chalfont St Regis is a Conservative stronghold, sir. No politician of any socialist hue has ever held office here."

"That's too bad. Might've got me out of a tight spot."

"The Liberal candidate, sir, is Maggie Muntz. She advocates closer ties with Europe. A policy that is possibly influenced by the fact she owns hoilday homes in Normandy, Picardy, the Dordogne and the South of France."

"The e_ntente cordiale_, eh, what?"

"Quite, sir. The third candidate is Mr Arnold Crump, representing the Keep England English Party, an extreme right-wing organization. Mr Crump asserts that anyone unable to trace their ancestry back to Richard the Lionheart should be put on the next boat to Calais."

"Crikey, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir. Next, Mr Bing Headbanger, of the Totally Bonkers Me Party."

"What a perfectly foul name!"

"Yes, sir. It is a peusdonym. Mr Headbanger's real name is Tarquin Fortescue. He is an ex-public schoolboy who has entered the race mainly as a prank. His manifesto offers a free custard pie in the face for every person in the country."

"Finally a politician I can get onboard with."

"Quite, sir. Lastly, the Green Party, represented by Mr Fergal Young."

"Not Fergal 'Dinger' Young? Good lord, I was at Oxford with him. And I used to see him round the Drones, until he was black balled. Fancy old Dinger getting mixed up in politics. I thought he was something or other in the City."

"Mr Young was a stockbroker for Montague Securities, sir. Unfortunately he lost 200 million pounds during a stock market reverse and the firm sacked him. He was somewhat disenchanted by this career setback and became an advocate of Green issues, largely because he is bankrupt and forced to live in the woods."

Just then the front door opened and in walked Madelaine Bassett. Jeeves shimmered off as he is apt to do when the 'quality' arrive.

"Ah, Bertie, darling. There you are."

Now seen from a distance this Bassett creature may not seem so mouldy. From the neck down she curved in and out in all the right places in a fashion designed to make a chap feel he was on to something good. But appearances can be deceptive. Take it from me. From the neck up Madelaine Bassett was pure cuckoo clock.

"I'm sorry I took so long. On the way back from the printers I stopped to hug a tree."

"Hug a tree?"

"Yes. A large sycamore. It was a beautiful and moving experience. Have you ever hugged a tree, Bertie?"

"Not as such. I climbed a tree once, in my salad days. Fell out and took a crack on the napper. I've steered clear of all things arboreal ever since."

"Oh that's a mistake. Did you know some trees live for thousands of years? They are ancient and wise. We can learn a lot from trees."

I couldn't see it personally, but there it is.

"Then I was further detained outside the supermarket. I cried my eyes out, Bertie."

"Oh dear. Forget your purse, did you? Miss out on a sales bargain?"

"No, no. A small doggie-woggie was tethered to a post while its owner shopped inside. It looked so sad and forlorn I just burst into tears. I cannot abide cruelty to animals. I sat with the little doggie-woggie, singing it cheerful popular songs and holding its widdle paw until the owner returned."

"Of course you did. Who wouldn't? Perfectly natural thing to do."

Sarcastic, of course. But she deserved it I think you'll agree.

"Oh Bertie, of all people I knew you'd understand!"

Unbidden, Madelaine rushed over and hugged me. Dashed unnerving. I looked down into her deranged eyes and gave an involuntary shudder.

"Why, Bertie, you're shivering."

"No, no, I'm fine, really."

"I think I know what it is. I know your guilty secret, Bertie."

I started. Did she mean my Tarzan disaster? Curse Oofy Prosser's loose tongue.

"You want to ask me something, don't you?"

"Do I?"

"I'll save you the trouble. The answer is yes, my darling."

"Ah - what was the question again?"

"You've been wanting to ask me to marry you for ages. Don't try and deny it. A girl knows. And yes, I will marry you. I'll become Mrs Bertie Wooster."

"Oh. Ah. Um."

Not good, of course. But the best I could manage in the circs. I felt as I did the night of Bobbie Wickham's party when the chandeliers gave way and the ceiling caved in. A sort of mortified incredulity combined with a splitting headache.

"The wedding can be after the election. That way we can go up to Westminster as man and wife. Won't that be jolly?"

"Quite. Listen, I don't--"

"I must leave you for a moment, my dearest. I need to buy some stamps - for the wedding invites. Later we can sit out under the stars with Rufus the cat. Perhaps he will tell us stories of the Empress Josephine?"

And with this final spasm of loopiness, Madelaine traipsed out of the house leaving Bertram a hollow shell of a man.

A hollow shell that needed filling. I knew just the thing - a double brandy or three.

"Mr Young is here to see you, sir," Jeeves announced as I downed the third.

"Send him in, Jeeves."

I wasn't in the mood for visitors, but at least old Dinger would smile and lend a sympathetic ear.

"What ho, Dinger. How's tricks?"

"Never mind that, Wooster, you blasted snake in the grass!"

Some smile. Some symp.

"Madelaine Bassett's just informed me you and she are engaged. Is this correct?"

"There is some preliminary discussion along those lines, yes."

"I see. Well, this puts me in a most invidious position. You're an old pal and I abhor violence, yet I feel a strong yearning to challenge you to a duel."

Duel? What was the man blathering about. Then a thought occurred.

"I say, Dinger, you don't harbour feelings for Madelaine Bassett?"

"I love her, Bertie. Have done since I met her on an anti-hunting rally. She baked biscuits in the shape of tiny foxes - or foxie-woxies, as she charmingly refers to them."

"Then why the dickens didn't you propose? Would have saved certain chaps a great deal of stress and anxiety."

"I did propose. I plighted my troth. But her father, Sir Watkyn Basset, rejected my troth out of hand."

"He rejected your troth?"

"Yes. He took my troth and stamped it into the dust. Said a chap who lived in the woods isn't good enough for his daughter. But we're twin souls, Bertie. We're both vegans."

"You're from outer space!!"

"No, you imbecile. Vegans don't eat meat or animal products.

Seemed an odd thing to want to be. Better by far to be from outer space, I'd have thought, but there it is. Each to his own.

"That's why I'm standing in this by-election. If I win I'll have sufficent status that old Pop Watkyns will have no choice but to accept our union. Until you beat me to it, of course. I hope you'll be very happpy together."

"Do you mean that, Dinger?"

"Not really. I hope you fall off a cliff and burst. But one has to be civil."

Quite.

I examined the old pal more closely. Something jarred. Then I realised. Dinger's suit was bulky and poorly cut. It seemed to made from some coarse sack-like material.

"I say, Dinger, that's a frightful suit you're wearing. What's it made from?"

"Canvas. I sewed it together myself from recycled tents."

"You're wearing a handmade canvas suit? A bally tent! In polite society? Good lord, Dinger, where will this madness end? You'll be wearing burlap dinner jackets next."

"I refuse to wear artifical fibres or clothes made from leather, wool or silk. Their manufacture is cruel to animals. Is that tie a Charvet?"

"Yes. Jeeves chose it. Natty, what?"

"No, it's not. D'you know silkworms are forcefed mulberry leaves until they can do nothing but extrude silk from their nether regions? How'd you like like to extrude silk from your nether regions 24/7?"

I confessed I would find it somewhat wearisome.

"It is just the sort of selfish human behaviour that is poisoning the earths biosphere. Speaking of which - is that your Bentley parked outside?"

"Rather. Care for a spin?"

"No, I wouldn't. It's gas-guzzlers like that which are harming the enviroment. Speaking of harm - if you upset Madelaine with your beastly wiles, Wooster, I will pop round and twist you into a pretzel then make you swallow yourself. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good."

And Dinger turned on his heel and stomped out, His canvas suit flapping around him like the sails of a mighty schooner rounding Cape Horn.

xxx

So the days wore on. I didn't venture out much. Chalfont was a convivial place, but Madeliane had plastered so many VOTE WOOSTER posters around town that it was impossible to avoid my great ugly fizzog grinning out at me on every street. It was enough to give a chap agoraphobia.

I had Rufus the cat for company. And despite knowing that Madelaine was doolally, I found myself observing him for signs of deceased french emperors in residence. Rufus did strut about, tail aloft, regarding all and sundry with a certain Gallic disdain. He preferred Madelaine, of course, often pawing her lap and nuzzling her face. Typical french behaviour. To amuse myself I started whistling 'Rule Britannia' just for the fun of seeing Rufus flounce out of the room in a fit of Gallic pique.

xxx

On the second Monday, all six candidates in the election were required to gather at the local town hall for a press conference. We sat at a long table up on a podium before a select audience of journalists and local worthies. Each of us was obliged to give a short speech and take questions from the floor. Ghastly business, of course, but I hadn't found a way to oil out of it.

First up was Blenkinsop, the labour man. He was a stout chap with full side whiskers and a gruff northern accent. He chuntered on about miners pay and workers rights. But as Jeeves had observed Chalfont was a True Blue town and Comrade Blenkinsop sat down to a stony silence.

Next was Crump, the right winger. He was short and wore a dark shirt with no jacket. He had a limp comma of black hair and a small bristly mustache. He reminded me of someone but I couldn't remember who. It was on the tip of my tongue...no, gone. I dare say it'll come to me eventually. Crump harangued us in a squeaky voice for a good ten minutes. But if Chalfont is no Socialist paradise, it isn't Nuremburg-on-sea either. He was booed to the echo. A bloke in a black bomber jacket summed it up by yelling - "fascist pillock!"

Then it was Harriet Muntz, the liberal. She was tall and thin and reminded me of those birds you see at the zoo - with long, spindly legs which hinge back to front. She had a thin, reedy voice to match. She waffled at length about european integration, leavening her rhetoric with anecdotes of recent hoildays spent in Provence and the Loire Valley. She attracted one question from the floor, from the bloke in the black bomber jacket, who appeared to be the Voice of the People.

"If you're so fond of the ruddy continent why don't you push off and live there?"

Ms Muntz' bottom lip trembled and she sat down with a bump, looking like she wanted a good long cry.

Next it was the turn of Tarquin, the ex-public school prankster. He hadn't prepared a speech. Instead he reached into a sack and proceeded to pelt the audience with custard pies. This caused a fair amount of confusion as the assembled scribblers and local dignataries scrambled out of the firing line. I must say if this is what passes for modern political debate in this country, then more of it. I haven't laughed so much in ages. I knew where I'd be casting the Wooster vote.

Then it was Bertram's turn to orate.

Now I don't suppose I've spoken in public since prep school, standing up in class and reciting my latin vowels._ Hic Haic Hoc_, as we Latin scholars say. As I recall I got a ruler across the knuckeles for _hoc_-ing when I should have _hic_-ed. Fortunately Jeeves had prepared crib-notes, and I pretty much stuck to his script. Family values, strong pound, support the armed forces, low tax - I laid it on thick. It seemed to work. I got a smattering of applause, and even the bloke in the bomber jacket kept schtum. I took questions from the floor.

"Mr Wooster," asked a journalist, "what are your thoughts on miner's jobs?"

"Pretty ghastly. Crawling about in the dark underground. I wouldn't do it. Never in all my puff."

"Mr Wooster, what is your opinion of Guantanemo Bay?"

I replied that I hadn't visited this particular resort, but I had visited Acapulco Bay, and found it most convivial. The _pina coladas_ were to die for.

The press wrote it all down in their notebooks. I felt pleased with the sagacity of my answers.Bertram had not been caught napping intellectually.

Finally, came old Dinger, still clad in his voluminous canvas suit. Dinger is a big broad chap and he has a big broad voice to match. His hearty tenor filled the hall like Pavrarotti bellowing an aria at La Scala. You could see the windows rattle.

Dinger had a green agenda, and by golly he gave it his all. Global warming, CO2 emmisions, greenhouse gases, sustainable energy, shrinking ice floes and stranded polar bears. Several times he smote the table with his clenched fist to emphasize a point, preventing me from dozing off. His eyes shone with a zealot's fervour. In the front row, Madelaine Bassett gazed up at him in a sort of rapture, her eyes wide as saucers. She clasped her hands together as if at a prayer meet and Dinger some fire and brimstone preacher warning sinners of a fiery Hell.

Dinger concluded with a flourish and half the hall stood to applaud. He was a hit, a palpable hit. He then took q's from the floor.

"Mr Young, what of your own green credentials? For example, do you own a car?"

"I do. One I have converted to run on green waste. Thus conserving energy with sustainable resources. Unlike my rival, Bertie Wooster, who I happen to know for a fact drives a Bentley Continental. A vehicle, ladies and gentlemen, that costs £130,000 and does barely 10 miles to the gallon."

It came as a nasty shock. I'd thought my part in the proceedings done and dusted. But here I was back in the spotlight.

"Mr Wooster, what about your carbon footprint?"

I took a surruptitious glance at the soles of my shoes. Had I trodden in something nasty? No, perfectly clean. Whoever was leaving carbon footprints it wasn't Bertram.

"Do you own a Bentley, Mr Wooster?"

"Oh rather. Jolly nice runner,too."

This ignited a certain amount of cross-party debate.

"What about the workers?" demanded Comrade Blenkinsop.

"Well, what about the bally workers?"

"The workers would like to own Bentley's."

"Then let them. I'm not stopping them, am I?"

"The ordinary working men and women of this country can't afford 130 grand for a motor."

"Then they'll have to catch the bus then, won't they."

I was particularly pleased with this snappy rejoinder. That had told the rude fellow. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. I turned and Tarquin pushed a custard pie in my face. Everything went yellow and gooey for a fair stretch. If this was what I could expect at Westminster then you could jolly well keep it.

xxx

The next morning I took breakfast in the conservatory, the only room where Madelaine hadn't pinned up any foul VOTE WOOSTER posters. Rufus the cat joined me. He had a dead mouse in his jaws. Whether he'd caught it in a cunning military tactic or merely a pounce in the long grass it was hard to tell. Rufus dropped it at my feet. Perhaps he thought I was the Duke of Wellington and this was a belated peace offering.

Jeeves entered and put the daily papers on the table.

"Congratulations, sir. You're in the newspapers."

It was true. My custard-covered face stared out from virtually every front page. One headline read:

**PIE IN GOB FOR TORY NOB**

"Would you care to peruse the editorials, sir? I'm afraid they are hardly flattering."

"Spare me, Jeeves. I have suffered enough. How are the opinion polls?"

"The latest poll puts you neck and neck with Mr Young. 33 - 34. In just 24 hours, sir, you have halved the Conservative vote and turned a safe Tory seat into a knife-edge marginal. Most remarkable."

"It's a knack," I replied modestly.

Madelaine breezed in. "Ah here you are, Bertie. And Rufus._ Bonjour, mon ami."_

Rufus sidled over and Madelaine tickled under his chin. He purred contentedly and sniffed around her skirts, rubbing up against her legs in a brazen manner. Once a frenchman always a frenchman, I suppose.

"Did you see Fergal yesterday, Bertie? What a fellow!"

"Yes, bit on the big side, isn't he. All that rowing at Oxford. Tends to build muscle."

"No, no. I meant his eloquence. When he spoke of the poor polar bearsie- wearsie's and their shrinking habitats and how he would put a stop to it, I wanted to leap on the podium and shower his face with kisses. I controlled myself. I am engaged to you."

"Oh no need for restraint. Shower ye kisses where ye may, that's my motto."

Madelaine looked at me in a soppy sort of way, soppier than usual I mean, then burst into tears and ran from ther room. Rufus gave me look of pure disdain, twitched his tail in a marked manner, and followed her out.

Women. Cats.

What a crew! I mean to say, what a _crew_!

xxx

That afternoon I undertook a spot of canvassing. This is one of the Black Arts that make politicians such a byword for underhanded skulldugery. It involved knocking on someone's door and asking a perfect stranger for their vote. Dashed rude and intrusive I know, but we politico's know no shame.

Madelaine accompanied me to Cromwell Street,a terrace of houses in a less salubrious part of Chalfont. We agreed she should stay in the car while I did the door to door work. In a place like Cromwell Street any car left unattended runs the risk of being jacked up on bricks and losing its tyres.

Armed with a blue rosette in my lapel and my most unctious smile I knocked on the first door.

A small child of the female gender answered. She had chocolate smeared around her mouth and I surmised I had interrupted a meal.

"Hullo, I'm Bertie Conservative, your Wooster candidate. Er--Bertie Wooster, your Conservative candidate."

The child continued to goggle at me in silence. I find I have that effect on children. And small dogs. As if they can't quite believe their eyes. I call it the Wooster Effect.

"Who is it, Beyonce?" yelled a voice from inside the house.

"Dunno, mam. Some bloke," the child - presumably the eponymous Beyonce - yelled back.

"Tell him we don't want nuffink. Sling yer hook."

"We don't want nuffink. Sling yer hook," Beyonce reitterated.

I slung my hook and pressed on.

As it transpired, this confab with the fragrant Beyonce was about as matey as it got. Mostly people opened the door, took one look at Bertram, shuddered, and slammed the door shut.

Finally I knocked on the last door. It was opened by an elderly woman in a hairnet.

"Hullo, I'm---"

"Ah here you are. It's about time. I've been waiting all day. Come in. Come in."

This was considerably more chummy. I stepped across the threshold into a narrow hallway. It smelt of cats, floor polish and stale teabags.

"It's in the cupboard under the stairs. You can't miss it," the ancient crone informed me.

"Miss what?"

"The gas meter, of course."

"Oh right. Best place for it, I suppose."

"Well aren't you going to read the meter? You are the gasman, aren't you?"

"No. I'm not the gasman."

"Then who the blazes are you?"

"The name's Woooster. I'm standing in the by-election."

"There's a by-election? I didn't realise. Which side are you?"

I had the facts at my fingertips.

"The blue side," I said pointing at my rosette.

"Is it your lot in government? Or the other lot?"

D'you know I hadn't the foggiest notion. I'm not terribly _au fait_ with current events. I would have to check with Jeeves. It might be important. Fortunately the old crone continued without pause.

"I don't trust this present lot. Shifty eyes, the lot of them. Reminds me of before the war. One minute it's Peace in our Time, the next bombs are falling on the back garden. Causes no end of havoc to the rhubarb, bombs."

I hastened to reassure her the manifesto made no mention of dropping bombs on gardens. At least not in this country.

"Good thing too. My potato patch went up like, well, like a bomb had hit it. Which it did.

Care for a cup of tea, young man? I've only used the teabag seven times."

"No, thanks all the same."

"Please yourself. Know what? You have an honest face. I think I will vote for you."

"Really? I say, thanks awfully much."

I left feeling considerably bucked. My first vote! I felt ten feet tall and walking on air. The power, I suppose. Dictators probably start out this way - ordinary chaps with dubious haircuts, they acquire a vote or two and it goes straight to their heads. Before you know it they're swanking about ordering jackboots by the ton and invading other countries. I would have to guard against this tendency. A marauding Bertram would not be a pretty sight.

I returned to the Bentley to tell Madelaine the glad tidings. But she wasn't there. Not in the front seats. Not in the back seats. And even a girl as loopy as her wouldn't cram herself into the boot. I waited an hour to see if she would show up. Then some local youths arrived and began to eye my alloys in a covetous manner and I felt it prudent to give Cromwell Street the old heave-ho.

xxx

Back at Wooster HQ I found Jeeves in the back parlour.

"I say, Jeeves, have you seen Miss Bassett? I appear to have mislaid her."

"Yes, sir. She returned about an hour ago in the company of Mr Young."

"Old Dinger, eh. Any idea where they've popped off to?"

"Yes, sir. Mr Young has discovered the existence of a mink farm on the outskirts of town. He and Miss Bassett have gone there to liberate the mink."

"Liberate?"

"Release into the wild, sir. Mr Young declared their incarceration to be barabaric and Miss Bassett agreed something must be done."

"But isn't it all rather illegal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well sooner them than me."

The telephone rang. Jeeves answered it then handed me the receiver.

"Miss Bassett, sir. On her mobile."

"Hullo?"

"Hullo, Bertie? It's Madelaine. I'm with Fergal. We're at a mink farm freeing the poor little minksie-winksie's."

"Yes, so Jeeves has informed me."

"We've hit a bit of a snag, Bertie. Fergal's car won't start."

"What - his old banger that runs on dandelion leaves?"

I couldn't help smiling, not after the way Dinger had slagged off my trusty Bentley.

"Yes. The thing is, Bertie, we're stranded. Would you mind terribly coming to pick us up?"

She had a nerve. Who did she think I was - Bertram Wooster's 24/7 Taxi Service? But I held my tongue. _Noblesse oblige_ and all that.

"Oh all right."

"Thanks, Bertie. Oh - could you hurry? Fergal thinks he has tripped the security alarm. The police are probably on their way."

xxx

Jeeves and I drove to the mink farm some five miles outside Chalfont. I parked by the entrance.

"Wait here, Jeeves. And keep the motor running. We may need to make a quick getaway."

"Very good, sir."

It was dark by this point, and outside the headlight beams I couldn't see much at all.

"Psst!" I hissed. "Psst! Psst! Psst!"

"Is that you, Bertie?" came Dinger's voice out of the gloom.

"Yes."

"Why are going 'psst'?"

"I'm trying to attract your attention."

"Well you've succeeded. Come along, Madelaine."

Dinger and Madelaine climbed into the car. I went to join them when Jeeves quite deliberately slammed the door in my face. To my further astonishment, he accelerated away leaving me high and dry.

But not h and d for very long. I could hear sirens and within moments what seemed like every copper in Chalfont had me surrounded.

"Freeze! Put your hands on your head!"

I froze and put my hands on the noggin. The day had suddenly gone very pear-shaped.

xxx

The next few hours were a bit of a blur. I was handcuffed, put in the back of a police car and driven to the local copshop. There I was questioned, put in a cell, finger-printed, questioned again and finally released from custody on my own recognance.

I trudged the dark deserted streets of Chalfont, my mind consumed with thoughts of Jeeves' treachery.

The first thing I saw back at HQ was Dinger and Madelaine holding hands on the sofa. They sprang apart guiltily as I walked in. Madelaine rushed to embrace me.

"Oh Bertie, you were so brave, sacrificing yourself so that Fergal and I could escape."

"Eh?"

"But I'm sorry, Bertie, I can't be your wife. I love Fergal. Inspired by your gallantry I intend to defy Father and marry him. We will be married by Druids in a pagan ceremony in a moonlit woodland glade. Tiny bunny-wunnies will be my maids of honour."

"Oh naturally."

"Oh Bertie, I realise the rest of your life will be one long echoing void with your only release blessed death, but you must be strong."

"Right. Strong. Oh rather."

Madelaine gave me her patented soppy look, burst into tears and fled the house.

Then it was Dinger's turn. He pumped my hand vigorously. It felt like I was trapped in a threshing machine.

"Bertie, old man, I misjudged you. Sacrificing your freedom like that - well, I salute you."

He gave the Wooster digits another threshing then followed Madelaine out into the night.

Finally Jeeves stood before me, offering a brimming gin and tonic on a silver salver.

"Well Jeeves," I said, my voice pure chilled steel. "Just where exactly do you get off, eh?"

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Abandoning the young master to the wolves like that. Don't try and deny it."

"You're quite correct, sir. But my motives were entirely for the best."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. You would not have enjoyed the life of a politician. Westminster is not congenial for a gentleman of your stature.I thought it my duty to act."

"Eh? You mean I'm not going to become an MP?"

"No, sir. I'm afraid Conservatibe HQ in London received an anonymous phone call informinmg them of your arrest. They have deselected you as their candidate."

"I'm off the hook?"

"Indeed, sir."

"Free as a bird?"

"Indeed, sir."

It was as if my world, so recently a gloomy monochrome, had come over all Hollywood technicolour. A thought occured.

"Jeeves, were you the anonymous tip-off?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. I apologise for any temporary unpleasantness my actions may have caused you. _Reculer pour mieux sauter."_

"Eh?"

"It is a French expression, sir. It means to take a step back in order to make a better leap forward."

"Jeeves, were you responsible for bringing Dinger and Miss Bassett together?"

"I did happen to divulge to Mr Young, sir, the whereabouts of the mink farm here in Chalfont St Giles, trusting his moral indignation and affection for the young lady would do the rest."

The scales fell from my eyes.

"Jeeves, you stand alone. How could I have doubted you? Compared to you Machiavelli was mere babe in arms incapable of plotting his way out of a telephone booth."

"Most kind of you, sir."

The telephone rang. Jeeves answered it then covered the receiver with his hand.

"Mrs Spencer-Gregson, sir. She desires speech with you immediately."

"Does she sound cross, Jeeves?"

"Somewhat irate, sir."

Now I might be an ex-politician but one or two tricks of the old Black Magic still remained. A piece of lingo I had heard bandied about.

"Jeeves, tell Aunt Agatha 'no comment'."

"No comment, sir?"

"That's right, Jeeves. I have no comment to make at this juncture. Indeed for the forseeable future - no comment- is the official Wooster party line."

"Very good, sir."

**THE END**

**AUTHORS NOTE**

**This is my seventh Jeeves & Wooster fanfic. The other six can be found here at They can be read in any order. Dive right in.**

**I feel I should probably issue a disclaimer like you find on DVD's - the opinions and prejudices of the characters are not necessarily those of the author.**

**Wodehouse fans will note I have taken certain liberties with the character of Madelaine Bassett. The 21st century Madelaine is still soppy, but comes with an pronounced Green tinge. I don't think it's a huge stretch, but if you disagree let me know.**

**Finally, on read through I notice I give a good few name-checks to Bentley, the car makers. So if you're reading this, guys, as recompense I'd like a Flying Spur, in silver with cream leather interior. Plus a full tank. And yes I will be holding my breath...**

**Thanks for reading.**

**PJ**


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